Framing Up, Boxing In, Getting Out
by Killjoyncis
Summary: Tony attempts to bury the hatchet with Ziva, but the sentiment doesn't translate.
1. Chapter 1

"I owe you an apology, Tony."

"Why is that, Ziva? Were you the one to frame me for murder? Because if you were, it's gonna take more than a simple, 'I'm sorry'." Tony was lying on his back on the thin mattress set up in the corner of his cell. He was trying to breathe slowly, trying to stay relaxed, but it was difficult. He'd yet to see Gibbs…somehow he thought his boss would have come sooner, especially considering that he'd been brought here by Sacks, who was not especially concerned with his health or wellbeing. Whatever. Sacks was a jackass who got off on the miniscule amount of power he had. Hell, the bruises on Tony's face might fade by the time he was set free. Because he would be set free. He was not willing to contemplate any alternative.

"Of course I did not frame you. If I wanted you out of the way, I would do it in a less conspicuous manner. You would disappear and never come back, and there would be no evidence of foul play." Ziva's tone was a bit too smug for Tony's tastes.

"I will pretend not to be disconcerted by how happy you seem to be about murdering me and hiding all signs of your crimes. So what was it that you needed to apologize for?" He really didn't want to see her or speak to her. Their relationship had improved since their undercover operation, and for that, Tony was grateful. Ever since his showdown with Gibbs after the Warren Sorrow murder, he'd been on shaky ground with his supervisor. Gibbs didn't seem angry, per say, but clearly the confrontation had made him uncomfortable.

"You were right about me. You were right about my mission, about my planning, about everything. I am competitive enough to be angered by your knowledge but I also would love to know how you managed to work everything out on your own. How does a cop…the black sheep of a wealthy family who could not last more than two years with any city…work out something that I've been trained to do since the age of six?" Ziva was pacing back and forth in front of him (beyond the cage, of course), clearly more irritated than she was willing to admit.

He smirked, then grew serious. "I can't really say that it was any one thing that set me off. I formulate possible correlations in my head. Gibbs hates coincidences, yeah? Well, he doesn't believe in them, I mean. So whenever things happen too easily and quickly, it gets me to thinking. Because life is hard. Life never happens flawlessly except when it's fiction. So I find myself looking for fictions and setting up scenarios in my head. The one I laid out for you outside your hotel room back at the beginning of all this was the one that my gut was telling me was the most viable."

"What is this gut? Gibbs has one and you have one. Is it gender specific, or is it just American heartburn misidentified?" She arched a brow, her snide comment at odds with her relaxed expression.

"It's not something I could describe or teach you. I spent most of my life observing the behavior of other people. When I was a kid, it was important because I needed to know if my dad was vicious drunk., sloppy drunk, or nostalgic drunk-"

"Why? What was the difference to you?" Ziva asked quietly.

"Usually, it just meant different locations for bruises. Vicious equaled bruises where no one could see. Painful, but easily hidden. Sloppy meant he'd smack me wherever he could reach me, and I spent many nights trying to make up believable lies for those marks. My first undercover gigs." He smiled, but knew it was an ugly, twisted parody of his usual grin. "Nostalgic meant he'd try to rip my heart out with guilt and regret."

"It must have been difficult for you."

"It is what it is. Everyone has something dark in their past. When I began my work as a cop, I started out in Peoria, then Philly, and finally Baltimore. Peoria was a mess from day one. I let people in…college was a good experience for me because I made a lot of friends, but it also lowered my defenses. I forgot that college is not reality, and I paid the price. I stuck it out as long as I could, but I knew Peoria would not be where I would retire. Philadelphia and Baltimore didn't work either for other reasons." He stopped talking. Why was he telling her all this? Was it because he trusted her or because he loved the job more than anything else? He snorted a bit. He didn't trust her anymore than he could see her. But he loved working for NCIS. It was a career for him, and he was not going to let some liaison from Mossad stand in the way of what he wanted. "I rely on my ability to read people, and you were a difficult, but not impossible story to figure out. Caitlin Todd, the agent who your half-brother killed, had some profiler training. She got me interested in the field, and I've been looking into the subject. Lots of sociology, lots of psychology. It helps me identify people and their aspirations."

"You are very skilled at what you do, Tony. But then, you knew that, right? Your self esteem does not need any encouragement." She winked at him. "Bye Tony. We will get you out of here."

His smile faded as soon as she walked away. "Yeah. Sure."

"I smelled you coming, Boss. Pepperoni, sausage, extra cheese, right? My favorite. Thanks. I'll save that for later."

Gibbs knew that there were multiple problems with both the statement that his senior agent made and Dinozzo's appearance.

"The hell happened to you?" His voice was too gruff and angry, but it got a response. Dinozzo was front and center by the time his question was finished. Gibbs reached his hand through the bars and raised Tony's chin, studying the marks on his face with increasing consternation. "Sacks?"

"Apparently, his sense of humor is not very well-developed. He'd be an excellent Herbert Lom to my Peter Sellers." Tony's glib response had Gibbs rolling his eyes and chuckling reluctantly.

"Yeah, well I'm not denying that Sacks would make a good Inspector Dreyfus, but are you really taking on the role of Inspector Jacques Clouseau?"

"Hell, boss. At least he got the guy in the end, right? That's the only thing that's gonna save me now."

Gibbs could only watch as Dinozzo proceeded to interrogate himself. Unfortunately, if this case ever went to trial, the questioning would probably not be too far off what the younger man was suggesting. But whoever was framing Tony had slipped up somewhere. They just needed to find it. The problem was that the person who Gibbs relied on to solve these sorts of cases was the one who was currently locked up.

"I'm not getting out of this one, am I boss?" Tony's green eyes were wide and full of fear that he either could not hide or was not aware of. Jethro swallowed hard, and then motioned with his hand. When Tony was within reach, he cuffed the back of the younger man's head, eliciting a quiet, "Thanks boss". He followed the traditional touch with a finger to the chin, an unspoken encouragement to Tony. Just like that, all the animosity and bitterness of the confrontation about trust disappeared. Tony smiled, silent.

"We're getting you out, Tony. You work with the best, and we aren't going to let you down." Tony nodded and seemed to take comfort in Gibbs' words.

Later, Tony hovered outside of Abby's lab, smiling as he watched her storming around, setting things to rights and muttering about getting incense to rid the lab of the "evil Chip spirits". She seemed no worse for the wear, and Tony had seen firsthand how well she took care of her wayward assistant. Still, he had to see her one more time, just to make sure.

"Hey Abs."

"Tony." A moment later, she was in his arms. He sighed and wondered how it was that his notion of home was in Abby's arms and Gibbs' head slaps. "I'm sooo sorry that it was my findings that put you in jail."

"Not your fault, Abs. And it's over now. So let's just not think about it, yeah?" He squeezed her gently, then let her go.

"Tony. Let's go out for a drink." Abby grinned.

"Eh, not sure I'm up for it tonight, Princess." He shook his head. "I need to do some thinking."

"About what?" With her head cocked to the side, she looked like an inquisitive Black Lab puppy…the pigtails helped complete the picture.

"Ziva." The fact that she had visited him in jail, and had sought, in her own fashion, to comfort him, made him wonder about his lack of trust in her. Maybe it was time to let her in. He'd let Abby in and it hadn't been a mistake. Maybe Ziva was worth it.

"You know, I really hated her when she first showed up here. Because it was right after Kate was killed and she was so smooth and it just felt like Director Sheperd was shoving her at us. Kinda like how parents of kids who hate each other force them to play together, or something. But she's super smart and she is freaking crazy deadly. So maybe you could cut her some slack, huh? If you are here for the long haul, and she is too, then it would be best to just bury the hatchet. Not an actual hatchet, of course, and I'm not really sure how that phrase came to mean what it means, but you know what I mean, right?"

"As much as I ever know what you mean." He smiled, then nodded. "Maybe you're right."


	2. Chapter 2

"Why are you on top of me?"

It was a valid question. Tony raised his eyebrows a bit as Ziva stared down at him, short of breath from flinging herself at him. He assumed she'd had some idea of saving him from her insanity. The insanity being, of course, firing a live round in an enclosed area. When the bullet had ricocheted, as he predicted it would, they both hit the deck, Ziva on top.

"I'm protecting you, Tony." She smiled at him. Probably then, he shouldn't mention that the ricochet had torn a strip off his arm. Luckily, the light wasn't good and he was wearing a dark jacket because he could feel the wound bleeding pretty freely.

"OK well, the bullet has stopped ricocheting, so you can stop protecting me." Tony found Ziva attractive; of course he found her attractive. But now really wasn't the time.

"You didn't seem to mind when we were undercover." She was smug and he was getting annoyed.

"That might have something to do with the fact that you were naked. Or, and this is more likely, it might have to do with the fact that we were undercover as a husband and wife assassin team. I was acting. Just like you, right?" Tony gently but firmly pushed her off of him, ignoring the pain in his arm in order to deal with the pain in his ass.

"Well, of course,_ I _was acting. It just occurred to me that your feelings had some basis in reality, that's all. After all, you are a bit of a…playboy, yes? That is the right terminology?"

"Sure, Ziva. Just call me Hugh." He stood up, feeling both the chill in the air and the fire in his arm. "Look, can we at least agree to NOT shoot randomly inside an enclosed area from now on? I won't even say I told you so if we never have to play that game again." He stood, then looked around the interior of their current less than comfortable accommodations. "We're missing something here."

"Besides heat?" Her tone was dry, but she looked curious. He smiled. She knew him well enough at this point to understand when he had something important to contribute to an investigation.

"Ziva David, does this space seem different to you?" He studied the walls surrounding him.

"Define different." Instantly she was at his side.

"Does it seem smaller than the outside dimension? Usually containers are forty feet long. This one's only thirty four on the inside. Somebody's been doing renovations."

She tilted her head. "You are a man of many talents, aren't you, Tony? Many people would not be able to discover even a six foot discrepancy while inside a container like this. Perhaps this 'gut' you speak of is something that I can learn, yes?"

"Aw shucks. You make me blush. As for the gut, it usually starts after a year or so of takeout Chinese, pizza, and barbeque. Wash, rinse, repeat…presto! Your very own gut. Then you just have to train it to rumble at the right time, and that? That is the tricky part." He grinned again. "It's a delicate science."

"Not bad. I can almost forgive you." She looked at him with fond approval. It felt good to impress her, and he basked in it for a moment before dealing with her words.

"Forgive me for what?"

"For locking me in this box."

"Well now it's your turn. Do something impressive and I will forgive you." She was his partner, right? She needed to know his status and whether or not he would present a weakness at any point in this.

"Really? And what do I need forgiveness for? For having a dinner party and inviting everyone except you? It seemed like you would not be interested in such a tame evening. And you had plans, yes? Was it mud wrestling?" She was coy even though her words were a bit apologetic. Tony bit back his possible responses: that he hadn't mentioned the (completely fictitious) mud wrestling until after he found out about the dinner party this morning when he heard McGee and Palmer talking about it, that it was really bad form to deliberately leave one member of the team when having a team building event, that he knew she had some kind of angle both for the party and for his lack of invitation. Instead, he focused on the situation at hand.

"For shooting me a few minutes ago."

Instantly, flirtation and friendly banter were set aside. He raised his hand, the one that had been covering the wound, and showed her the blood coating it. She dragged him over into the light and forced him to take his jacket off and his shirt. "It isn't too bad. Just a crease. But it's bleeding. We need to dress it and keep pressure on it."

"Gosh, you think? I was working on the pressure part before you decided to strip me and have your way with me." It was probably not the best time for flirting, but he needed to get his clothes back on before he froze.

With Tony's knife, they cut his t-shirt into strips and bandaged the wound. Then, finally, he was able to get dressed.

"How are you feeling? You've lost a lot of blood. Are you lightheaded?"

"Ziva, you need to worry about putting your little assassin mind on getting us out of here. I am fine. It's just a flesh wound. It bled, it stopped. Please move on." They were floating the counterfeit bills out of the storage container. Or rather, Ziva was. Tony had been relegated to sitting and doing nothing. Not his strong suit. The truck's movements were making him nauseous and pathetically grateful that he had not eaten lunch before getting stuck inside. "This isn't the first time I've been shot. Or the second. And I'm pretty sure that it won't be my last."

"If you do not shut up, I may shoot you." She winced. "Again."

"Now David, once could be an accident. You shoot me twice, people may talk."

"I do not care what people say about me." At Tony's snort, she looked affronted. "What? You disagree?"

"Everybody cares what people say about them. Those who say they don't are liars." He looked up to find her staring at him in consternation. "It's true. We all prance around with this party line that words can't hurt us and we shouldn't let other people's opinions dictate our actions, but it's societal. Humans want approval from other humans."

"I guess you are right." She sat down next to him. "So, the piano? Really?"

He shrugged. "My mother wanted me to play. I wanted to make her happy."

"Mama's boy, yes?" She laughed. "I might have guessed."

"My mother was miserable every day. I would have played the harp if it would have earned a smile." He shrugged. "So did you do anything that you hated to make one of your parents happy?"

"Of course. All children do." She stood up and began to drop more money outside. Tony wondered when she would realize that the more tightlipped she was about her personal history, the less of a mystery she actually became to him.

Of course Lake was on the take. Tony grinned at his unintentional rhyme, and the lackey with the gun trained on him jabbed him in the gut, presumably for smiling.

"What's so funny?" Lake had been leering at Ziva, but was distracted by Tony's seemingly unnatural good cheer.

"Well, lots of things, Matty. First of all, don't you ever watch movies? Dirty cops, well, it always ends bad for them. Then there's your wardrobe, which you were obviously hoping to improve with the payoff for selling out your country. And finally, it amazes me that you managed to underestimate my boss. That, despite the horrible tie, is the funniest part of this whole travesty." The backhand to the face was worth it; none of the bad guys noticed Gibbs entering the building.

"You know, you two almost cost me fifty million dollars." Lake's tone was conversational; he had regained his composure. Too late.

"Actually, by now it's more like ten or twelve." Tony spit blood out and smiled again. His Cocky Cop Special 9. Guaranteed to piss everyone off.

"We burned it." Ziva shrugged apologetically and he almost laughed. Hilarious. He loved that she had picked up on his game. Had picked up that he was attempting to distract and let Gibbs do what Gibbs did best: lethal stealth.

"Do you think this is funny?" Lake was in his face now, practically spitting on him. Tony rolled his eyes. What a moron.

"Not me personally." He met Gibbs' eyes, noting the flash of concern at his injuries.

"I do. Drop it." The situation in hand, Gibbs was the essence of composure. Tony nodded in response to Gibbs' question about their health, laughing as Ziva kicked Lake viciously, then hobbled off to the bathroom.

"You ok, Tony?" First names generally only came out when Tony looked worse than usual after a run-in with bad guys.

"Fine. They got a few punches in, but he," he gestured to Lake, still incapacitated on the floor, "hits like a girl. Not like Ziva, I mean. Like a non-assassin type girl."

"What happened to your arm?" Gibbs glanced at the bloodstain, than back at Tony. No way was he sharing the truth behind the wound. Accident or no, Ziva would get a formal reprimand for injuring her partner and discharging her weapon in a non-secure setting.

He shrugged. "Not sure. Maybe Lake's goon squad scored a hit?"

"Are you still complaining about the scratch on your arm?" Ziva's voice was exasperated. "Please, Tony. You scraped it on one of the boxes inside, and then complained about it until I wrapped it for you. Please cease with the dramatics. And no, I do not want to know which movie this reminds you of."

He winced. Granted, he did not want to throw his partner under the bus, and he was fully prepared to lie to save her ass. But was it absolutely necessary to make him look completely useless? Still, trying to sell that Lake's men had shot him after Ziva said he'd scraped it, wouldn't fly now. So he sucked it up.

"Oh yeah. I remember now." He watched her carefully, searching for regret or apology. He saw neither; just annoyance. If she wasn't willing to tell Gibbs the truth, and went out of her way to make him look like a weakling, he would have to play along. But he didn't like it. Where was her loyalty?

Later, after Tony learned that the entire team had been at Ziva's for dinner the night before and that at least one member of the team had known that she had deliberately aimed to exclude him, he turned down her (very public) offer to cook for him.

"No thanks, Ziva. I am sure that you are very good at what you do, but I am picky about who cooks me pasta." He gave her the wide, shit eating grin that never went further than his mouth. "I think I'll fend for myself tonight."

The barely concealed triumph in her expression told him all he needed to know. She was aiming for his job, at the very least., and he had completely fallen for it. The "bonding" moments had been staged. McGee had known that Ziva's actions had been deliberate, of course; Tony could tell by the smug expression on his face. Gibbs…well, who knew? He had obviously been there, but Tony wasn't sure if he'd been in on the plan. He wanted to trust his boss, but his actions recently made Tony wonder. It didn't matter, really. The point was, he clearly had been wrong about staying with this job. He was long past his "two year warranty" phase, and it was time to move on.

"Tony?" Abby stood by the elevator, blocking his exit from the office.

"Not tonight, Abs. I'm tired." He recognized the despair in his own voice, and knew Abby would hear it as well.

"What's wrong? Is it your arm? I can drive you home if you want. Ducky said you might need a ride because you lost some blood." She made an awkward motion with her arms, clearly intending to hug him but unsure of his reaction.

"Nope. I can drive." He got on the elevator and held in a sigh when she joined him.

"Is this about the dinner at Ziva's? Because she told us that she asked you but you turned her down."

"She didn't and I didn't." He kept his eyes on the doors.

"You mean she lied to us? Why would she do that?" Abby was instantly distraught. Tony shrugged.

"Got me. But I can say with the utmost certainty that she does not understand the concept of burying the hatchet except in its most literal sense." The doors opened and he strode out, anxious to finish the conversation.

"What are you going to do?" They had reached his car and he got in quickly, relieved at his impending escape.

"I'm going to find something else. Start over." He paused. "You say anything to Gibbs before I am ready, and you'll never find me, Abby."

"Tony, you can't! You can't just walk away from us! We're your family." Her eyes welled with tears, but she wasn't letting any fall.

"I'm done. I'll stay until after the holidays, but you know as well as I do that the writing has been on the wall for awhile." He smiled at her sadly. "I have to go. See you tomorrow."

As he drove down the aisle at the parking garage, he saw her in his rearview mirror. It was time to put this job behind him and cut his losses.

If only he knew how.


End file.
